He walked angrily off, leaving Richard standing before the picture which so much resembled him. He turned quickly, and went in search of Elizabeth. She was sitting with Phyllis in the breakfast parlor. Phyllis, who was often inclined to a dreamy thoughtfulness, was so inclined at that hour, and she was answering Elizabeth's remarks, far more curious of some mental vision than of the calm-browed woman, sitting opposite to her, sewing so industriously. Richard came in like a small tempest, and for once Elizabeth's quiet, inquiring regard seemed to irritate him.
"Elizabeth;" and he took her work from her hand, and laid it on the table. "My dear love! does Phyllis know?"
"What, Richard?"
"About Antony and the Hallam estate?"
"No; I thought it best to let you tell her."
"Because you were sure I would refuse it?—Phyllis!"
"Yes, Richard."
"Your uncle is going to disinherit Antony; and he wishes me to become his heir and take his name."
"But that is impossible. You could not take Antony's place. You could not give up your name—not for a kingdom."
"Then," said Elizabeth, a little proudly, "he must give me up. I cannot disobey my father."
Phyllis quietly rose and went out. She could not interfere with the lovers, but she felt sorry enough for them. Richard's compliance was forbidden by every sentiment of honor. Elizabeth was little likely to give way. Richard held her to her promise, and pleaded for its fulfillment. He wanted no fortune. He was quite content that her fortune should go to free Hallam. But he did not see that her life and happiness, and his, also, should be sacrificed to Antony's insane ambition. "He will marry, doubtless," he urged. "He may have a large family; cannot one of them, in such case, be selected as heir?"
This was the only hope Elizabeth would admit. In her way she was as immovable as Richard. She had made up her mind as to what was her duty in the premises, and her lover could not move her from this position. And, as the unhappy can seldom persuade themselves that "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," each heart was heavy with the probable sorrows that were to flow from this complication of affairs.
Phyllis, musing thoughtfully at her own room window, saw the squire walking on the terrace. Her first impulse was to go to him, but she sat down to consider the inclination. Her class-leader, a shrewd, pious old Scotchman, had once said to her—"Nine impulses oot o' ten, Sister Phyllis, come fra the de'il. Just put an impulse through its catechism before ye go the gate it sends ye." So she sat down to think. "What right have I to interfere? Ought I to solicit a confidence? Can I do good? Might I not do harm? A good word spoken out of season is often a bad word; and I am not sure what is the good word in this case. I had better be still and wait."
Her patience had in some measure its reward. Toward afternoon Elizabeth came to her room. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she said, "Father and Richard have shaken hands, Phyllis; there is to be no ill-will about the disappointment."
"I am very glad. But is it to be a disappointment—to you, I mean, Elizabeth?"
"I fear so; I must stand by father's side as regards Hallam. I can wait and love on. But I will not bind Richard. He is free."
"I am quite sure he is not free. Richard will never be free while there remains a hope of eventually winning you."
"He says that nothing but my marriage to some other person shall make him lose hope; but men say these things and forget."
"Richard means what he says. He will not forget; and time gives with both hands to the patient and the truthful. Is the squire satisfied?"
"I don't think he blames Richard. The shadow I felt on the night of our betrothal has begun to creep toward me, Phyllis. I am in its chill and gloom. It will darken all our remaining hours together, and they are few now."
"Make the most of them, dear. Get all the sunshine you can; stay with Richard. I am going to the village to bid Martha good-bye."
"Richard says you are to sail Wednesday?"
"Yes; what is the use of drawing out a parting? We have had a happy holiday. Let us go ere its spirit is over. There must be times and seasons, Elizabeth; it is the part of love and wisdom never to force them. Besides, uncle has a very sore place in his heart, and Richard can hardly avoid rubbing against it. It is best for us to go."
Martha was a little dull, and Phyllis was struck with her explanation: "I'm a bit selfish to-day; and t' heart that isn't loving isn't cheerful. Ben and me hev been so much to each other, that it comes a bit hard to hev to step aside for a lass as one doesn't care much for." She put her checked apron to her eyes, and wiped away a few tears.
"But Ben can never forget what you did for him."
"It was Mary after a' that saved him. I nobbut prayed night and day. She brought the magistrate and t' constable. Men don't count much on prayer."
"Dear Martha, God sends by whom he will send. If he had thought it best, you would have got the order. God looks afar off—for the years that are to come—when you may be where all tears are wiped away."
"I know, I know."
"Don't let Ben think you grudge him the fullest measure of his happiness and deliverance. Mothers must have a deal to bear. The best of children are blind, I think."
Martha was crying quietly. "He was t' last left me. I hev carried him i' my heart for months, till my heart is fair empty without him. I wanted him a little bit to mysen. She's a good girl, is Mary, and I'm trying hard to love her; but I've got a weight on me that's bad to bide."
"If it's a bitter cup, drink it, Martha."
"My lass, I'll do that. There'll be a blessing in t' bottom o' it, never fear. I'm nobbut standing as a bairn does wi' a cup o' medicine; and when a thing is hard to take, its nobbut human nature to say it's none nice."
"I am come to say 'good-bye' Martha; I don't want to leave you in tears."
"Nay then is ta! Surely to goodness thou isn't going in t' dead o' winter?"
"Yes. We leave Hallam to-morrow."
"Then bide a bit. I'll mak' a cup o' tea in t' little Wesley tea-pot; and I'll toast thee a Yorkshire cake, and we'll eat a mouthful together in this world before we part. We'll be none like to meet again."
She wiped away every trace of tears, and drew the little table to the hearth-stone, and set out her humble service. And she quite put away her own trouble and spoke cheerfully, and served Phyllis with busy hospitality.
"For, you see," she said, as she knelt before the fire toasting the cake, "I feel as if you were a pilgrim, Sister Phyllis, that had come across my little cottage on your way to the kingdom. And if I didn't mak' you welcome, and say a hearty, loving 'Godspeed' to you, I'd happen miss a bit o' my own welcome when I enter the gates o' the kingdom. So, eat and drink, dearie; and may the bread strengthen you, and the cup be full o' blessing."
"I shall never forget you, Martha. I think we shall know each other when we meet again."
"For sure we will. It will be in 'Jerusalem the golden' I don't doubt. Farewell, sister!" and she took the sweet young face between her large hands and kissed it.
Her smile was bright, her words cheerful, but Phyllis went down the street with a heavy heart. She stopped at the house where Mr. North lodged and asked to see him. He came down to her with a smile; but when she said, "It is a good-bye, Mr. North," his face grew pale, his eyes full of trouble; he was unable to answer her. The silence became painful, and Phyllis rose.
"Let me walk a little way with you. Pardon me, I was not prepared for this—blow."
Then Phyllis knew that he loved her. Then he knew it himself. A great pity was in her heart. She was silent and constrained, and they walked together as two who are walking toward a grave.
"It is very hard for me to say 'good-bye,' Miss Fontaine. I shall never, never forget you."
"There are many hard things in life, Mr. North; we can but bear them."
"Is that all?"
"That is all."
"God help me!" He lifted her gloved hand and touched it with his lips. No knight could have expressed in the act more respect, more hopeless tenderness. Then he turned silently away. Phyllis's lips parted, but no words would come. She was full of sorrow for the noble, suffering, humble heart. She longed to say a kind word, and yet felt that it would be unkind; and she stood still watching him as he went farther and farther away. At a bend in the road he turned and saw her standing. The level rays of the sun set her in a clear amber light. He gazed at her steadily for a moment, raised his hand slowly, and passed forever from her sight.
There was something so pathetic and yet so lofty in the slight, vanishing figure, with the hand lifted heavenward, that she felt strangely affected, and could scarcely restrain her tears.
When people come to the end of a pleasure, so many little things show it. The first enthusiasms are gone, there is a little weariness in joy, the heart begins to turn to those fundamental affections and those homely ties which are the main reliance of life. It seemed to Phyllis that, for the first time, she was homesick. The low, white, rambling wooden house, spreading itself under moss-covered trees, began to grow very fair in her memory. The mocking-birds were calling her across the sea. She remembered the tangles of the yellow jasmine, the merry darkies chatting and singing and laughing, and her soul turned westward with an indescribable longing.
And she thought to herself, as she stood upon the terrace and looked over the fair land she was leaving with so little regret, "When the time comes for me to go to my heavenly home, I shall be just as willing to leave the earthly one."
CHAPTER V
"I loved you alway, I will not deny it; not for three months, and not for a year; but I loved you from the first, when I was a child, and my love shall not wither, till death shall end me."—
GAeLIC SONG.
"Our own acts are our attending angels, in whose light or shadow we walk continually."
The Fontaine place was a long, low, white building facing a tumbling sea, and a stretch of burnt sea-sands. It had no architectural beauty, and yet it was a wonderfully picturesque place. Broad piazzas draped in vines ran all around the lower story, and the upper revealed itself only in white glimpses among dense masses of foliage. And what did it matter that outside the place there were brown sand-hills and pale-sailed ships? A high hedge of myrtles hid it in a large garden full of the scents of the sun-burnt South—a garden of fragrant beauty, where one might dream idly all day long.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon of an August day, and every thing was still; only the cicadas ran from hedge to hedge telling each other, in clear resonant voices, how hot it was. The house door stood open, but all the green jalousies were closed, and not a breath of air stirred the lace curtains hanging motionless before the windows. The rooms, large and lofty, were in a dusky light, their atmosphere still and warm and heavy with the scent of flowers. On the back piazza half a dozen negro children were sleeping in all sorts of picturesque attitudes, a bright mulatto women was dozing in a rocking-chair, and the cook, having "fixed" his dinner ready for the stove, had rolled himself in his blanket on the kitchen floor. Silence and dusk were every-where, the dwelling might have been an enchanted one, and life in it held in a trance.
In one of the upper rooms there was an occupant well calculated to carry out this idea. It was Phyllis, fast asleep upon a white couch, with both hands dropped toward the floor. But the sewing which had fallen from them, and the thimble still upon her finger, was guarantee for her mortality. And in a few minutes she opened her soft, dark eyes, and smiled at her vacant hands. Then she glanced at the windows; the curtains were beginning to stir, the gulf breeze had sprung up, the birds were twittering, and the house awakening.
But it was pleasant to be quiet and think in such an indolent mood; and Phyllis had some reasons for finding the "thinking" engrossing. First, she had had a letter from Elizabeth, and it was in a very hopeful tone. Antony and George Eltham were doing very well, and, as Lord Eltham had become quietly interested in the firm, the squire felt more easy as to its final success. Second, Mr. North was leaving Hallam, his term there had expired, and the Conference, which would determine his next movement, was then sitting. Her thoughts were drifting on these two topics when a woman softly entered the room. She looked at Phyllis's closed eyes, and with a smile went here and there laying out clean white muslins, and knots of pink ribbons, and all the pretty accessories of a young maiden's evening toilet.
"Thar now, Miss Phill! I'se ready—and I 'spects thar's some good news for you, honey!"
Phyllis opened her eyes. "I heard you, Harriet. I was not asleep. As for good news, I think you are always expecting it—besides, I had some to-day."
"Dat's de reason,—Miss Phill—'whar you going good news? Jest whar I'se been afore.' Dat's de way. I reckon I knows 'bout it."
"What makes you know this time, Harriet? Has the postman been, or a bird whispered it to you, or have some of Waul's servants been making a call here?"
"I don't 'ceive any of de Waul's servants, Miss Phill. I'se not wanting my char'ctar hung on ebery tree top in de county. No, I draws my s'picions in de properest way. Mass'r Richard git a letter dis morning. Did he tell you, Miss Phill?"
"I have not seen him since breakfast."
"I thought he'd kind ob hold back 'bout dat letter. I knows dat letter from Mass'r John. I'se sure ob it."
"Did you look—at the outside of it, I mean—Harriet?"
"No, Miss Phill, I didn't look neider at de outside, nor de inside; I's not dat kind; I look at Mass'r Richard's face. Bless you, Miss Phill! Mass'r Richard kaint hide nothing. If he was in love Harriet would know it, quick as a flash—"
"I think not, Harriet."
"Den I tell you something, Miss Phill. Mass'r Richard been in love eber since he come back from ober de Atterlantic Ocean. P'raps you don't know, but I done found him out."
Phyllis laughed.
"I tell you how I knows it. Mass'r Richard allays on de lookout for de postman; and he gits a heap ob dem bluish letters wid a lady's face in de corner."
"That is Queen Victoria's face. You don't suppose Master Richard is in love with Queen Victoria?"
"Miss Phill, de Fontaines would fall in love wid de moon, and think dey pay her a compliment—dey mighty proud fambly, de Fontaines; but I'se no such fool as not to know de lady's head am worth so many cents to carry de letter. But, Miss Phill, who sends de letters? Dat am de question."
"Of course, that would decide it."
"Den when Mass'r Richard gits one of dem letters, he sits so quiet-like, thinking and smiling to himself, and ef you speak to him, he answers you kind ob far-away, and gentle. I done tried him often. But he didn't look like dat at all when he git de letter dis morning. Mass'r Richard got powerful high temper, Miss Phill."
"Then take care and not anger him, Harriet."
"You see, when I bring in de letter, I bring in wid me some fresh myrtles and de tube roses for de vases, and as I put dem in, and fixed up de chimley-piece, I noticed Mass'r Richard through de looking-glass—and he bit his lips, and he drew his brows together, and he crush'd de letter up in his hand."
"Harriet, you have no right to watch your master. It is a very mean thing to do."
"Me watch Mass'r Richard! Now, Miss Phill, I'se none ob dat kind! But I kaint shut my eyes, 'specially when I'se 'tending to de flower vases."
"You could have left the vases just at that time."
"No, Miss Phill, I'se very partic'lar 'bout de vases. Dey has to be 'tended to. You done told me ober and ober to hab a time for ebery thing, and de time for de vases was jist den."
"Then, the next time you see Master Richard through the glass, tell him so, Harriet; that is only fair, you know."
"Go 'way, Miss Phill! I'se got more sense dan tell Mass'r Richard any sich thing."
Phyllis did not answer; she was thinking of a decision she might be compelled to make, and the question was one which touched her very nearly on very opposite sides. She loved her brother with all her heart. Their lives had been spent together, for Phyllis had been left to his guardianship when very young, and had learned to give him an affection which had something in it of the clinging reliance of the child, as well as of the proud regard of the sister. But John Millard she loved, as women love but once. He was related by marriage to the Fontaines, and had, when Phyllis and Richard were children, spent much of his time at the Fontaine place.
But even as boys Richard and John had not agreed. To ask "why" is to ask a question which in such cases is never fully answered. It is easy to say that Richard was jealous of his sister, and jealous of John's superiority in athletic games, and that John spoke sneeringly of Richard's aristocratic airs, and finer gentleman ways; but there was something deeper than these things, a natural antipathy, for which there seemed to be no reason, and for which there was no cure but the compelling power of a divine love.
John Millard had been for two years on the frontier, and there had been very meager and irregular news from him. If any one had asked Richard, "Are you really hoping that he has been killed in some Indian fight?" Richard would have indignantly denied it; and yet he knew that if such a fate had come to his cousin Millard, he would not have been sorry. And now the man with the easy confidence of a soldier who is accustomed to make his own welcome, wrote to say "that he was coming to New Orleans, and hoped to spend a good deal of his time with them."
The information was most unwelcome to Richard. He was not anxious for his sister to marry; least of all, to marry a frontier settler. He could not endure the thought of Phyllis roughing life in some log-cabin on the San Marino. That was at least the aspect in which he put the question to himself. He meant that he could not endure that John Millard should at the last get the better of him about his own sister. And when he put his foot down passionately, and said, between his closed teeth, "He shall not do it!" it was the latter thought he answered.
He felt half angry at Phyllis for being so lovely when she sat down opposite him at dinner time. And there was an unusual light in her eyes and an indescribable elation in her manner which betrayed her knowledge of the coming event to him.
"Phyllis," he asked, suddenly, "who told you John Millard was coming?"
"Harriet told me you had a letter from him this morning."
"Confound—"
"Richard!"
"I beg your pardon, Phyllis. Be so good as to keep Harriet out of my way. Yes; I had a letter—a most impertinent one, I think. Civilized human beings usually wait for an invitation."
"Unless they imagine themselves going to a home."
"Home?"
"Yes. I think this is, in some sense, John's home. Mother always made him welcome to it. Dear Richard, if it is foolish to meet troubles, it is far more foolish to meet quarrels."
"I do not wish to quarrel, Phyllis; if John does not talk to you as he ought not to talk. He ought to have more modesty than to ask you to share such a home as he can offer you."
"Richard, dear, you are in a bad way. There is a trustees' meeting to-night, and they are in trouble about dollars and cents; I would go, if I were you."
"And have to help the deficiency?"
"Yes; when a man has been feeling unkindly, and talking unkindly, the best of all atonements is to do a good deed."
"O, Phyllis! Phyllis!"
"Yes, Richard; and you will see the Bishop there, very likely; and you can tell the good old man what is in your heart, and I know what he will say. 'It is but fair and square, son Richard, to treat a man kindly till he does you some wrong which deserves unkindness.' He will say, 'Son Richard, if you have not the proofs upon which to blame a man, don't blame him upon likelihoods.'"
"My good little sister, what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to meet John, as we were met at Hallam, with trusting courtesy."
"If you will promise me to—"
"I will promise you to do nothing secretly; to do nothing my mother would blame me for. To ask more, is to doubt me, and doubt I do not deserve. Now put on your hat and go to church. They will be disappointed if you are absent."
"It will cost me $100."
"A man ought to pay his debts; and it is nicer to go and pay them than to compel some one to call here and ask you to do it."
"A debt?"
"Call it a gift, if you like. When I look over the cotton-fields, Richard, and see what a grand crop you are going to have this year, somehow I feel as if you ought to have said $200."
"Give me my hat, Phyllis. You have won, as you always do." And he stooped and kissed her, and then went slowly through the garden to the road.
She did not see him again that night, but in the morning he was very bright and cheerful "I am going to ride to Greyson's Timbers, Phyllis," he said; "I have some business with Greyson, and John will be almost sure to 'noon' there. So we shall likely come back together."
She smiled gladly, but knew her brother too well to either inquire into his motives or comment upon them. It was sufficient that Richard had conquered his lower self, and whether the victory had been a single-handed one, or whether the Bishop had been an ally, was not of vital importance. One may enjoy the perfume of a good action without investigating the processes of its production.
In the middle of the afternoon she heard their arrival. It was a pleasant thing to hear the sound of men's voices and laughter, and all that cheerful confusion, which as surely follows their advent as thunder follows lightning. And Phyllis found it very pleasant to lie still and think of the past, and put off, just for an hour or two, whatever of joy or sorrow was coming to meet her; for she had not seen John for two years. He might have ceased to love her. He might be so changed that she would not dare to love him. But in the main she thought hopefully. True love, like true faith, when there seems to, be nothing at all to rest upon,
"Treads on the void and finds
The rock beneath."
Few women will blame Phyllis for being unusually careful about her toilet, and for going down stairs with a little tremor at her heart. Even when she could hear Richard and John talking, she still delayed the moment she had been longing for. She walked into the dining-room, looked at the boy setting the table, and altered the arrangement of the flowers. She looked into the parlor, raised a curtain, and opened the piano, and then, half ashamed of her self-consciousness, went to the front piazza, where the young men were sitting.
There was a subtle likeness between Richard and his English ancestors that neither intermarriage, climate, nor educational surroundings had been able to overcome; but between him and John Millard there were radical dissimilarities. Richard was sitting on the topmost of the broad white steps which led from the piazza to the garden. With the exception of a narrow black ribbon round his throat, he was altogether dressed in white; and this dress was a singularly becoming contrast to his black hair and glowing dark eyes. And in every attitude which he took he managed his tall stature with an indolent grace suggestive of an unlimited capacity for pride, passion, aristocratic—or cottonocratic—self-sufficiency. In his best moods he was well aware of the dangerous points in his character, and kept a guard over them; otherwise they came prominently forward; and, sitting in John Millard's presence, Richard Fontaine was very much indeed the Richard Fontaine of a nature distinctly overbearing and uncontrolled.
John Millard leaned against the pillar of the piazza, talking to him. He had a brown, handsome face, and short, brown, curly hair. His eyes were very large and blue, with that steely look in them which snaps like lightning when any thing strikes fire from the heart. He was very tall and straight, and had a lofty carriage and an air of command. His dress was that of an ordinary frontiersman, and he wore no arms of any kind, yet any one would have said, with the invincible assurance of a sudden presentiment, "The man is a soldier."
Richard and he were talking of frontier defense, and Richard, out of pure contradiction, was opposing it. In belittling the cause he had some idea that he was snubbing the man who had been fighting for it. John was just going to reply when Phyllis's approach broke the sentence in two, and he did not finish it. He stood still watching her, his whole soul in his face; and, when he took her hands, said, heartily, "O, Phyllis, I am so happy to see you again! I was afraid I never would!"
"What nonsense!" said Richard, coldly; "a journey to Europe is a trifle—no need to make a fuss about it; is there, Phyllis? Come, let us go to dinner. I hear the bell."
Before dinner was over the sun had set and the moon risen. The mocking-birds were singing, the fire-flies executing, in the sweet, languid atmosphere, a dance full of mystery. The garden was like a land of enchantment. It was easy to sit still and let the beauty of heaven and earth sink into the heart. And for some time John was contented with it. It was enough to sit and watch the white-robed figure of Phyllis, which was thrown into the fairest relief by the green vines behind it. And Richard was silent because he was trying to conquer his resentment at John finding satisfaction in the exquisite picture.
Perhaps few people understand how jealous a true brotherly love can be, How tenderly careful of a sister's welfare, how watchful of all that pertains to her future happiness, how proud of her beauty and her goodness, how exacting of all pretenders to her favor. His ideal husband for Phyllis was not John Millard. He wondered what she could see to admire in the bronzed frontier soldier. He wondered how John could dare to think of transplanting a gentlewoman like Phyllis from the repose and luxury of her present home to the change and dangers and hardships of pioneer life.
It would have been an uncomfortable evening if the Bishop had not called. He looked at John and loved him. Their souls touched each other when they clasped hands. Perhaps it was because the nature of both men was militant—perhaps because both men loved frontier fighting. "I like," said the old soldier of Christ, "I dearly like to follow the devil to his outposts. He has often fine fellows in them, souls well worth saving. I was the first Methodist—I may say the first Protestant preacher—that entered Washington County, in Texas. Texas was one of our mission stations in 1837. I never was as happy as when lifting the cross of Christ in some camp of outlaws."
"Did they listen to you?"
"Gladly. Many of them clung to it. The worst of them respected and protected me. One night I came to a lonely log-house in the Brazos woods—that was 'far, far West' then. I think the eight men in it were thieves; I believe that they intended to rob, and perhaps to murder, me. But they gave me supper, and took my saddle-bags, and put up my horse. 'Reckon you're from the States,' one said. 'Twelve months ago.' 'Any news?' 'The grandest. If you'll get your boys together I'll tell you it.'"
"They gathered very quickly, lit their pipes, and sat down; and, sitting there among them, I preached the very best sermon I ever preached in my life. I was weeping before I'd done, and they were just as wretched as I like to see sinners. I laid down among them and slept soundly and safely. Ten years afterward I gave the sacrament to four of these very men in Bastrop Methodist Church. If I was a young man I would be in the Rio Grande District. I would carry 'the glad tidings' to the ranger camps on the Chicon and the Secor, and the United States forts on the Mexican border. It is 'the few sheep in the wilderness' that I love to seek; yea, it is the scape-goats that, loaded with the sins of civilized communities, have been driven from among them!"
Richard started to his feet. "My dear father, almost you persuade me to be a missionary!"
"Ah, son Richard, if you had the 'call' it would be no uncertain one! You would not say 'almost;' but it is a grand thing to feel your heart stir to the trumpet, even though you don't buckle on the armor. A respectable, cold indifference makes me despair of a soul. I have more hope for a flagrant sinner."
"I am sure," said John, "our camp on the San Saba would welcome you. One night a stranger came along who had with him a child—a little chap about five years old. He had been left an orphan, and the man was taking him to an uncle that lived farther on. As we were sitting about the fire he said, 'I'm going into the wagon now. I'm going to sleep. Who'll hear my prayers?' And half a dozen of the boys said, 'I will,' and he knelt down at the knee of Bill Burleson, and clasped his hands and said 'Our Father;' and I tell you, sir, there wasn't a dry eye in camp when the little chap said 'Amen.' And I don't believe there was an oath or a bad word said that night; every one felt as if there was an angel among us."
"Thank you, John Millard. I like to hear such incidents. It's hard to kill the divinity in any man. And you are on the San Saba? Tell me about it."
It was impossible for Richard to resist the enthusiasm of the conversation which followed. He forgot all his jealousy and pride, and listened, with flashing eyes and eager face, and felt no angry impulse, although Phyllis sat between the Bishop and John, and John held her hand in his. But when the two young men were left alone the reaction came to Richard. He was shy and cold. John did not perceive it; he was too happy in his own thoughts.
"What a tender heart your sister has, Richard. Did you see how interested she was when I was telling about the sufferings of the women and children on the frontier?"